Mcdonald stared at him, as one does when he cannot believe what he has heard. It wasn't the first time someone had confused the writer with his most famous creation--Irwin Maurice Fletcher, the investigative journalist with a Bronze Star and a smart mouth--but it was the first time an old friend, someone with whom the author had grown up, actually referred to him as the character. He was so stunned he could barely speak, but this is what he did say.
"End of game. Period." He wanted to know, because he had to know. "Do you think of me as Fletch?" The friend was embarrassed.
"Oh, shit," he muttered. "Did I say that?"
When recounting the story now, Mcdonald can say only this.
"It was frightening. It was very frightening."
You see, very much like Irwin Maurice Fletcher, Gregory Mcdonald does not want to be known--by his own name, some of the time, much less the name of someone who exists only on the printed page (or on the movie screen). He and his wife will often make reservations under a different name. When a fellow traveler on an airplane asks him what he does for a living, he will often say he's in the insurance business.
He will not announce himself as Dr. Rosenpenis or Mr. Poon or John Cocktoasten, because that is something Chevy Chase did in the movie Fletch, which bore only a slight resemblance to its predecessor and became a touchstone for a generation fond of watching the film and talking along. But, nonetheless, he will hide behind the scrim of inscrutability. That is why he lives on a cattle farm in Tennessee, not in a brownstone in New York. He prefers the sunrise to the spotlight, the milking of teats to the kissing of ass.
When he was a writer at The Boston Globe, from April 1966 to April 1973, he refused to allow the paper to run a picture alongside his column; he wanted to move anonymously among the people, just one more shadow eavesdropping and keeping tabs. As a result, he turned out some of the best journalism of that raucous, dispirited era, some of which was collected in 1985 for the book The Education of Gregory Mcdonald. He listened as Jack Kerouac drank himself into a blissful, fluent stupor; he shot the shit with John Wayne at a ranch outside Dallas; he bantered with Andy Warhol, the piebald prince of disposable art; mostly, he found the right people who said the right things and portrayed them all as righteous. He planted the seeds of the revolution and handed out his bounty to readers hip to civil rights and gay rights and the anti-Vietnam War movement; for his toil, he was once beaten bloody in The Globe parking lot by colleagues and forced to stay out of the newsroom.
"I've known authors who are bloody nuisances, you know, who can't go into a restaurant without their announcing who they are," he says. "Lots of people write, I think, because they want a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and they want to be known as a writer. I don't. It's part of the Fletch philosophy--which was true regarding me at The Boston Globe--that I could sneak around and have all kinds of conversations with all kinds of people because I never let the Globe run a picture of me in the column. As soon as you become an icon yourself, then you've put up a big wall between yourself and people. I'm not at all sorry that people know my works and don't know me."
So, yeah. He's Fletch. And he's Flynn. And he's David MacFarlane. And Dan Prescott and Robby Burnes and Mark Edwards and every other man to roam his margins. They exist so Greg Mcdonald doesn't have to. They crack his jokes, fight his causes, raise his stinks, even bed his women. And his novels take what seem like moments to read, perhaps because they're filled with pages of dialogue with little scene setting to get in the way. Mcdonald feels little need to impress or dazzle. To show off with language, to become the gymnast on the keyboard, would draw attention to the man who doesn't want any.